Deception
by youtuber411
Summary: Adommy. Tommy is a former CSI Agent who had a past with a certain raven-haired Agent... Why did Tommy have to leave? What happens when they meet again... face to face?
1. Tagged

**Thank you for reading this. Deception- **practice of misleading somebody: **the practice of deliberately making somebody believe things that are not true**

**Warning: sexual content, language, mature read.**

**Chapter One: Tagged by what is Insufficient**

I checked my phone again, waiting to hear from my assigned director. I'd made sure the target was… taken care of properly, and now, I was awaiting my next instructions. I reloaded my gun and checked the silencer before carefully returning it the holster that was strapped to my side.

Although I'd like to take it back out and point it at my head. I had felt that way for a long time. My baby, my love, had been by my side for four years... Until one day, he left. Just up and left with no explanation. He left me a fucking note! Might've well have drove a knife through my heart and twisted it every day for three years.

He left me in a sad wallowing mess that I had been in for several weeks… until Claudia had to come to my apartment and—quite literally—knock some sense into me.

My phone buzzed lightly from my left pocket, and I reached for it. The second my fingers wrapped around the Droid, it rang loud enough to wake the dead and startle me at the same time, also causing me to automatically reach for my gun. I sighed to myself, calming down as the Lady Gaga song filled the large empty house.

"Hello?" I answered the call.

"Agent Trebmal, meet me at the gate." her English accented voice replied.

I hung up and upon leaving, I checked the body; floating in his million dollar pool, eyes wide, a bullet hole in his chest. Claudia would want a full report… she was always a sass like that. I left the house, disposing my rubber gloves. The evidence I had planted in the house would lead to a blond male who is married with three kids. Oh, the progress of the future… the cops will never find him, though; he doesn't exist.

In the field I work in, we are able to make fake finger prints and hair particles that are untraceable. Great huh? Comes in handy, too, for missions like this one. I walked down the LA streets until I was far enough from the house and searched for a taxi. The shrill whistle I made with my tongue and two pointer fingers startled a few people, but successfully hailed a cab.

I slipped into the yellow car as the driver gabbed on his cell phone. "Where too, mister?" he asked, his green eyes staring at me through the rear view mirror, the cell phone—although glued to his ear—was held away from his mouth so he could speak to me.

"The apartment complex on Mason." I answered as he put the car in reverse, turning around towards down town LA. The trip was short and the man dropped me off. I paid him and excited the car, taking my briefcase with me. He sped away, leaving me alone at the shitty apartment complex.

I spotted the Black SUV as soon as it drove up, recognizing it as Claudia's, and I jogged to it. I opened the back door and slipped into the leather seat, next to Claudia.

"Go." she addressed the driver. "Matthew, put it up, please." he nodded and pressed one of the many buttons on the ceiling of the car. A black—no doubt sound proof—divider slid upward, separating us from the driver. "This is off the charts; total black out." she handed me a thick file folder. I flipped it open and found an assortment of papers, reports, newspaper articles, and pictures; the pictures were of a man, blond, always wearing sunglasses and never looking directly at the camera. He looked somewhat familiar.

"I need you to find out anything and everything you can about this man."

"What can you tell me about him?"

"Not much. He's tagged RED."

"RED?"

"Resigned; Extremely Dangerous."

I nodded, understanding. "Why did he resign?"

"Some complications with one of his missions… he didn't want to do it, so he resigned."

"What was the mission?" When she didn't answer, I looked up at her. She gave me a look that informed me that I overstepped my boundaries. Don't let her blond hair and sweet blue eyes fool you, this girl's got attitude. Her cherry stained lips and stripper heels screamed edginess, her khaki skirt and jacket proved business, her hose and red nails showed true woman, the gun in the holster strapped to the inside of her jacket informed aggression—take that any way you like—her British accent showed cuteness… but the permanent sassy look on her face proved that, under all that edginess, business, woman, aggression and cuteness, she was a true bitch. I paged through the file again, frowning.

"Does he look familiar to you?"

"I'm not… sure… are there any pictures of him without his sunglasses?"

"The back." she replied.

I flipped to the last page where I found a loose piece of paper; a picture. A man was sitting on a park bench, smiling a little at the camera, he obviously trusted whomever was taking the picture. Speaking of the mystery photographer, I noticed someone's thigh, clothed in black. I focused my attention back on the man. His eyes were the most beautiful brown, like chocolate, and were staring, adoringly, at the camera. His blond hair was shaved on the right side, the top grown out—like a long Mohawk—and parted, extremely, to the left. Multiple silver loops run through both ear lobes, one cartilage is pierced with several hoops while the other has a steel bar pinned from one side to the other. His Twiggy—if you don't know who that is, then I am ashamed of you—lips looked soft and kissable… I licked my own subconsciously. His lower body faced left, his upper torso turned slightly, facing the camera. His smile just barely showed his perfect white teeth. My mouth dropped open as I stared at the blond in disbelief. Yes… I know him… correction: I _knew_ him… but that's a long story. I felt my throat close up.

"Well? Do you know him?"

I cleared my throat. "Maybe… I know a lot of blonds." well… that isn't a lie…She smirked. "I want you to kill him as fast as you can. Make it painful, though; torturous. Do you understand? You do realize that this will count for loyalty."

I swallowed a lump in my throat and nodded at her request, staring at the picture. Could I really kill this man? I mean, of course I could, but… _would_ I… _should_ I…?

"Is there a problem?" she knew… she knew the story… She knew about him and me… She's doing this on purpose. It was so cruel… so terrible… so Claudia.

She gave me a sideways glance, awaiting my answer. I cleared my throat. "No." I retorted. "No…" I stared out the window, but the picture did not release its grip off my memory. I was so confused. How did they get that picture? It taken it with my _personal_ camera… that was my thigh in the shot… I had taken that picture… the picture of Joe Filtar… of Tommy Joe Ratliff…

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	2. Reject

**Reject What Shows the Real You**

**Adam POV:**

***** (this symbolizes the beginning of a flashback)**

His brown eyes were glued to the TV screen. His mouth hung open, slightly, his hands grasped the controller, his thumbs worked the tiny joysticks as he killed zombie after zombie. Watching him was quite amusing to me. He sat, cross-legged on my bed wearing nothing but my nice, black, button down dress shirt. I, myself, was sporting some white sweatpants and no shirt. I was surprised at how amazing he was at Call of Duty—knowing that he didn't own the game—I wonder why that is?

"Dammit!" he shouted, startling me. I smirked at the GAME OVER that was flashing on the screen. Good. He'd been at that game for seven hours! Non stop! "Mitchell, I'm hungry."

"What do you want?"

"Order a pizza, will you?"

"Yeah… sure.." I noticed he was restarting the game. If I don't do it now, I won't have another chance for seven more hours… at least! I climbed on the bed, a mischievous smile on my face, and sat behind him, scooting closer; enabling me to wrap my arms and legs around him. I kissed his neck and licked right behind his earlobe. He—not tearing his eyes away from the screen—leaned back, lounging on my body, tilting his head; giving me more access to the flesh on his neck.

I watched for a few minutes as he killed the armature zombies of level one. I traveled my tongue a little ways down his neck, then lightly grazed his earlobe, before sucking on it. He moaned, loudly, letting me pry the controller out of his hands.

"Now why is it that you are so good at that game?" I murmured against his throat, unbuttoning his—my—shirt. "Maybe its because you have a secret weapon?" I inquired, palming his chest. "A hidden gun, perhaps?" my fingers snaked around his half hard cock. "Did I find the secret weapon, Joe?" I whispered in the shell of his eyes, pumping my hand.

"A-ah! Oh my god, Mi-Mitchell! St-stop!" he cried, thrusting his hips in time with my pumping hand. But we both knew he didn't want me to stop… he wanted—no, scratch that— he _needed_ this now…

"Do you really want me to stop, Joe?" I murmured, smiling as his moans got louder. With one final pump, his cum shot out, spreading his semen all over my hand and causing a scream to rip through his lips. I brought my hand up to his face, allowing him to taste himself; to suck on my fingers.

Watching him cum all over me and suck on my fingers was enough for me to end up aching between the legs. Moaning, I slid my other hand down my pants. Joe—still sucking on my fingers—knocked my hand away and pulled my sweats down to my ankles with his teeth.

"Spread your thighs." he commanded.

Usually, I was on top. I like the top. I like being in control. If I wanted to be sweet and gentle, I'd do it. If I wanted to be rough and painful, so be it. But the way little Joe's voice was—dominate and demanding—it turned me on.

I obeyed, watching as he searched the drawers for something. His eyes lit up as—I assumed—he found what I was looking for. Keeping the mystery item hidden from me, he climbed back on the bed. I could hear the clinking of metal… chains? Nope, handcuffs. He straddled me, pinning my arms above my head and clipping me to the headboard.

"No, Joe, I don't want it!" I need to feel in control somehow, and without my hands, that's impossible.

"Shhh… if you touch too, it'll be over too quickly. Now just relax!"

"How can I relax if you're- Ow!" he elbowed my ribs, shushing me loudly again. I knew, with my training, that in less that five seconds, I could have the cuffs off and Joe on the floor with a gun to his head. But instead, I clamped my mouth shut.

Now I've never been the obedient type, especially to people who are shorter than me. (no offence to people who are under six feet.) But helpless, handless, and aching between the legs, all I could do was watch as Joe's lips formed deliciously around my throbbing cock.

Ok, ok, in case you haven't guessed, I'm gay. To some, I'm 'homosexual', to others, I'm 'one of them', and to the rest, I'm a faggot… a cock-sucking ass-fucking faggot. I blacken the name of our fair country. But whatever you wanna call me… I'm just gay. I tried to explain it to my mother; no, it's not a phase. Yes, it gets better.

"Sir? Sir?" the cab driver snapped me out of my thoughts.

"What?" I snapped, annoyed that my flashback was interrupted. He pointed out the front window at my apartment. "Oh…" I said, feeling a little guilty. "Thanks." I fished in my pockets and tossed a wad of cash on the front seat. I gathered my briefcase and various other crap I had strewn all over the back seat of the cab. With much struggle, I managed to get out of the cab and too the front door. My neighbor, Lydia, was able to help me inside and up to my apartment; all smiles, flirty. _Sorry, Lydia, _I thought, _but I'm gay._ with my briefcase hugged tightly against my chest, I could literally _feel_ the heat from Tommy's— uh, I mean Joe's file seeping through the thick leather walls of the case, just begging to be read.

After successfully escorting me to my apartment room, Lydia seemed to wanna stick around. What happened to women? I thought they always wanted to be conceited! True, I haven't dated one since I was seventeen, but that's besides the point. Maybe they've changed in the last eleven years, I don't know.\

No offense, women, but ya'll are just way too complex…I'd much rather be with a man… which is why I don't get lesbians… after—nicely—getting Lydia out of my apartment—which took two hours, three beers, and a Call Me with a phone number on a sticky note—I cleared my desk and placed the file squarely on my desk. I got up to get a beer out of the refrigerator and use the restroom; I have other things to worry about than piss.

Opening the bottle with my teeth, I set the beer next to the folder, not even bothering to search for a coaster. White rings on my desk didn't seem to penetrate my thoughts as I opened the file carefully. A mass of mail, credit card transactions, receipts—_Damn he still spends like he used to—_, birthday cards—_October 18th. See? I remember—_, YMCA membership expiration notices—_so he's been working out? That's hot_—and numerous photos—in every one he was sporting black sunglasses and looking away from the frame; so either he didn't know they were being taken, or he was very aware of the secret photographer and was avoiding them. Either way, he still looked damn sexy.

I thought it best to sort it all out first. Soon, I had a pile of pictures, a mound of cards, a stack of miscellaneous papers, and an empty beer bottle. Step two: Get More Beer. I got up and stretched my legs, disposing the empty bottle in the recycle bin. I retrieved a second bottle from my fridge and set it on my desk. The picture I'd taken of Tommy sat face up on top of the picture pile. I lifted it gingerly and studied it. This was my favorite picture of him… and it's too beautiful to be cast into a degrading pile of 'Confidential' scraps of a man's fake life. Only I knew the real Tommy Joe Ratliff. Everyone else knew only Joe Filtar. In a way, it's sad… sad how a job can recreate a person's life. Nothing is as it seems. And this picture proves that he had a life. As short as it was—four years—I gave him a life… and he gave me one… this picture showed the real Tommy Joe Ratliff.

I found a Sharpie in my desk drawer and wrote 'Tommy Joe Ratliff 2008' on the back of it, then pinned it to my cork board I'd hung on the wall. I sat myself at my desk again, eyeing the uncapped sharpie. I carefully wrote the word Filtar on my hand, then below that, I wrote Ratliff. Filtar—minus the second F—is Ratliff backwards. That's a given.

By three in the morning, I had four empty beer bottles, a stained hand, and an address… by God, I had an address…


	3. Intruder

Chapter Three: The Intruder

Tommy POV:

"I had a really nice time." she smiled at me sweetly.

I returned a rare grin. "Same." I'm a man of few words… and it doesn't help that I'm in the game. The dating game. Do you know how hard it is to find someone who will put up with your quiet personality? Very. Been at this for six months, and I _still_ didn't know what to do if I don't like the person… and tonight, I didn't like the person.

She stood at the door of her apartment, brown hair still perfect as well as makeup, staring at me, green eyes expectant; waiting. What? Do you want me to kiss you? Why can't you start the kiss? The last one did! Well, that's why I didn't like him… too pushy and impatient.

Ugh, why can't I find the perfect person? I find good people, people who I would willingly fall into bed with, people who look great with great personalities… but one flaw. If I fond just one flaw, it ruins the whole thing and I kind of build a wall. This girl is amazing; she's talented, funny, sweet, charming, lives a few floors above me, she's awesome… but she's too perfect. I refuse to believe that there's nothing wrong with her. Maybe she smokes… yeah, she's probably addicted. I leaned in and kissed her, sweetly. There were no traces of smoke—in taste or smell—not that I would mind; I have an occasional pack once in a while.

I guess I don't see a flaw yet and we'll just leave it at that. With perfect people like her, I usually find a flaw on the second or third date, then I'm in kinda deep and I don't wanna be the kind of guy who says 'hey, I'll call you next week' and never do. So I always just tell them the truth… which almost always ends with a slap in the face or a drink thrown in my face; sometimes both.

So there is usually not a second date.

I had a lover… but that was a long time ago. Damn, he was perfect; not a single flaw in the four years we were together. I wish daily that I could see him again… has he changed at all? Did he color his hair a foreign color, one that I would not recognize? How many times have I passed him on the crowded New Orleans streets and not known it? What if he—? No, no, Tommy, don't get yourself all worked up over it. I'm sure you would recognize him if you saw him and even if you did, he would have seen you… but if he did, would he make an effort to talk to me? Would he call out my name and weave through the crowds until he reached me? Would he pull me into his arms and tell me how much he misses me? Or would he ignore me? Does he despise me for leaving? Does he ever want to see me again? What if he did see me, recognize me—I haven't changed much—but doesn't stop? What if—?

"Want to come inside?" she whispered seductively in my ear. I grinned. As appealing as that sounds, I decided against it. Last time I had sex was about a week ago, with this guy. He was awesome… except… his moans annoyed me and ruined the rest of the intercourse. No, I'm not gay, bi, or strait, I'm just looking for the one; the one could be a guy or girl, mind you, I'm just exploring my options.

Sounds stupid, I know… but in the end, if I find that person—my other half, the one—then my life will have meaning. Kinda strange coming from a pessimist, but whatever. My thoughts were swarmed as I left the elevator and walked down the familiar hall to the wooden door with the number 13 on it. 13... A very unlucky number… not my favorite. I requested to move, but all the other rooms are full… how unlucky is that?

My senses became alert as soon as I reached the door… and realized it was slightly ajar.


	4. To Kill

**Chapter Four: Too Kill, Or Not To Kill…**

**Tommy POV:**

I pushed on it and it opened, creakily. So much for the element of surprise… as you enter my apartment, you are greeted by a wall with a light switch on your right, and another wall on your left, enclosing you into some type of hallway. Go down the three steps and the left wall ends, exposing the rest of the studio apartment. I waited at the top of those steps for what seemed like forever… just listening. All I heard was the ticking of my old clock and the rise and fall of my own breathing.

I crept down the steps cautiously, and slipped my shoes off at the welcome mat. I wore my not-so-high creepers tonight, knowing the girl was a little on the short side. Like me. I hate being short. Absolutely hate it—I'm sick of looking up at people.

Now, at the end of the steps, you make a 180 degree turn and descend three more steps. The railing on the left is twisty black metal—if you get that?—like vines. You are then immediately in the kitchen, which is complete with steel appliances—which is a cold sort of look for one's kitchen—and white cabinets. The white counters are topped with gray and white marble, the floor, white tile.

Fun, right?

Every wall in my apartment are white—I'm not allowed to paint—which gives it a certain bore, you know? To the right of the kitchen, I'd set up a brown card table, the four surrounding chairs are wheeled and cushioned—un-matching office chairs—and right behind the table is a desk with a laptop.

My apartment is kinda like a huge room with only two separate rooms—a bathroom and my room—which makes it easier to clean. The kitchen's white tile stretches into the makeshift dining room, through the bathroom—which is directly next to the computer desk—and stops a third way into the room, where cream colored carpet takes over. Positioned on the carpet are two black leather couches—one is a love seat if you want to be specific—the larger one is backed up against the left wall, the smaller one's back stops where the carpet and tile meet; facing the back wall. Which is just a sliding glass door that leads to a balcony where I'd set up a couple of cushioned lawn chairs, a few potted plants—most likely dead—and the occasional ash tray.

The left wall is capacitated with a 50 inch plasma screen tv set complete with cable and blu-ray; best feature in my apartment. In the center of the entertainment room, is a wooden coffee table. To the left of the tv—and the right of the bathroom—is my bedroom. The whole apartment that I just described to you was empty—there was no sign of a body even been there at all while I was gone. And there's not many places you can hide in my apartment. But one can never be too certain…

The bathroom door was closed—I always leave it open when I'm done in there and I'm almost positive that I haven't broken my habit. I crept over to it slowly, wincing as the floor boards creaked noisily. _One_, I count in my head, _two_, I grip the door handle and turn it slowly, _three_! I pushed the door open and it landed with a bang on the opposite wall. The walls are white—go figure—the far wall has a shower\tub, the left wall has a sink, the right a toilet. Next to the toilet is a white cabinet—you know, for like towels and stuff—pretty much your basic bathroom, nothing special. And it was empty.

Thank. God. Could you imagine walking into your bathroom and finding the person who broke into your apartment pissing? Yikes…

That left my room. I can picture it now: it's small with a very tiny closet—I don't have a lot of clothes—on the left wall. Next to the closet is a dresser with a 45 inch tv on top—one of these days, I'm going to slam a drawer shut and that thing'll go flying—also complete with cable and blu-ray.

It's a nice place for someone who works at home depot—oh yeah, I just _love_ showing people where to find power tools—yeah, it sucks… I used to _be_ somebody. I used _real_ guns, not price tag guns. I'd kill people, not help them find fiber glass. I'd clean up blood, now I'm cleaning up spilled paint… I used to matter… I used to be feared. Fuck. Me.

But my favorite feature in my room is my bed—no, dumb ass, that's not why—it's super comfortable and soft… like quicksand… I love it. But its so big! You can't get out by going left or right, you have to crawl to the very end and get off that way. The space in between the walls is so tight, there's barely enough room for a quarter to fit through, so if you drop some change, you ain't getting it back.

The back wall has a window with a great view of the city—especially at night. I entered my room, the phantom break-in forgotten, and peeled of my shirt, moaning a little at the heat. Did I leave my window open again? I turned to check… and froze.

"Hi, Tommy." he said, smiling.

And that's when my biggest fear became reality… the fear of him returning and catching me off guard…

He sat on my bed, cross-legged, wearing black jeans and a plain white sleeveless tee, on his neck, he wore a black leather collar and I recognized it as the one we'd used for our little games in the past, if you know what I mean. his hair—still black thank god—was perfectly arranged around his face, his eyes smudged with black liner… ah those eyes! I missed them! I missed the soft, yet sharp, blue eyes that could flash from cute innocence to dangerously sexy in seconds… those eyes graced me with everything from angry glares to loving stares in the past, and now they were filled with… love? Admiration.. Trust maybe… a hint of lust and a sprinkle of insecurity.

"A-Adam…" I wasn't really allowed to talk to him because of what happened in 2009. "Does the agency know you're here?" I asked, doing a quick once over. His bare, freckled arms showed no possession of a weapon, but as I've said before, one can never be too certain… I crossed the tiny room and opened my closet, hanging up my shirt.

"Yes… yes they do… well, Claudia does, I'm not sure about anybody else, but—" he froze when I whirled around, pointing a silver pistol at him. His electric blue eyes stared at the gun, then glanced at my finger on the trigger, then flicked up to mine, giving me a look that proved he knew I would pull a gun on him. "How's life treating you?"

I gave him a wary look. "It's hell. I miss my old job… I haven't killed anyone in years!"

He laughed.

"Why are you trying to kill me?"

"I'm not trying to kill you, Tommy. If I were, you'd already be dead, I assure you."

I considered many things—pulling the trigger, running away, shooting myself, curling up on the ground and crying, running over to him and kissing him—so instead, I shot him… a disbelieving look—hahah gotcha.

"You think I'm lying? Wanna frisk me?" he smirked, arching a perfect eyebrow. I blushed and stared at my socked feet. "Relax, babe, I'm kidding!" he said, softly. I glanced back up at him and his expression turned serious. "Put down the gun, Tommy… you and I both know it isn't loaded."

How did he know? He must have searched my apartment, finding the gun and noticing the empty mag. Shit. I gave him a small smile of defeat and waved the empty gun at him. "Take off your showed, you probably tracked dirt all over!"

He laughed and unzipped his heeled boots—why the fuck did he need heeled boots? The man's six feet tall!—following me out of the room. I tossed the gun to the couch and motioned to the mat where my shoes rested. He tossed his boots next to my creepers.

"Want some cheese cake?" I offered, taking the dessert out of the fridge. He nodded, opening the cupboard. "The plates are—"

"I remember." he winked. How charming. He poured milk in two glasses and grabbed two forks, bringing them to the table. He sat down and crossed his socked ankles. I set the dessert down and sat down myself, watching as he dug in.

"I could have poisoned that you know…"

"But you wouldn't have… I know you wouldn't. I know you, Tommy… you won't kill me until you figure out why I'm here…"

Damn, he knew me too well…


	5. Lost

**Oh my God! I am so sorry for the delay! Here's a peace offering;)**

**~you tuber411**

**Chapter Five: Lost Conscience**

**Tommy POV:**

"So why are you here, anyway?"

He finished chewing and took a gulp of milk before continuing. "I'm here to find answers. Claudia told me to terminate you immediately," I tensed, feeling like a fool when he noticed, "she says you 'didn't want to do one of your missions'… but that doesn't sound like you… _Joe Filtar_."

I grinned fondly at the name. "So what are you saying, _Mitchell Trebmal_?"

He grinned. "Well, _Tommy Joe Ratliff_, I was wondering if you could enlighten me?"

"And why on earth would I do that, _Adam Mitchell Lambert_?"

I couldn't help but smile at the memory of the time we told each other our real names. That was a huge deal in the agency, a symbol of great trust… I remember it like it was yesterday; Mitchell licking my shaved thighs and me tugging on his hair. He trailed his tongue up my thigh and caressed my shaft with his freckled lips, ever so gently, causing chills to run up my spine and moans to escape my lips. He slithered up my sweaty body, kissing me. His tongue slid along my bottom lip, begging for entrance. After our tongue fight, he caressed my jaw bone, neck, and collar bone.

"Mmm… oh, Mitchell!" I cried as he bit into my neck.

He sat up and looked into my eyes. "Adam… it's Adam…"

"What?"

"My name is Adam Mitchell Lambert."

I remember being moved to tears, so overjoyed and shocked at how much trust he had in me… I also remember three months after that… Adam and I were cramped in a subway car. It was a cold winter night in January and we were in pursuit of some hot chocolate, all decked out in our winter gear—boots, jackets, gloves, etc. He held my gloved hand in his and—despite the prejudice stares—had his arm wrapped around me, holding my shivering body close. He leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to my cheek. "Well, it's a great night, first snow of the year… Don't you just _love_ January?" I smiled my agreement. "Of course you do! A perfect night, and I can't think of any other way than to spend it with you, Joe."

"It's uh… Tommy… Joe Ratliff."

His smile got wider and he hugged me tightly. "Tommy Joe Ratliff…" he repeated, my name sounding perfect when he said it. Those were to of the best days of my life. I looked at him expectantly, awaiting his answer.

"Because I want answers."

"Adam, you can't always get what you want… I owe you nothing." I stood and brought my plate to the sink.

"Tommy?" he stood. I held my breath. "Was there ever a time you thought about be in the past few years? …Ever?" The air trapped in my lungs ran out in a huff. I'd expected this… I'd been waiting for this… I turned to face him. Something you might find interesting about me; I'm great at lying. I can look someone straight in the eye, say something totally false, and remain straight-faced through the entire fib. It was nothing to be proud of… but I'm just so damn _good at it!_

"_No…" I answered, staring blankly into his eyes._

_He looked away. "Oh…" I felt bad about lying, which really surprised me because, at a young age, my mother shipped me off to military school, where I was drafted into the agency because I'm small and quick. They taught me to have no feelings… They taught me not to care…_

_I lost my conscience…_


	6. Decisions

**Hello, lovelies:) i have to apologise for the wait and i know this chapter is short, but i just finished the entire book! Ah! I know! Exciting, right? So i'll be submitting alot more now... i hope. Love you all and thank you for your patience. -youtuber411**

**Chapter Six: Decisions**

"Are you crazy?" his voice rose in pitch as he stared wide eyed at Adam.

"Cheeks, try to understand! I need your help!" Adam begged.

"I'm an analysis… a systems analysis, there is no way I can get you into the hall of records!"

"Hey, keep your voice down!" I whispered, glancing around at the passing agents.

"Mitchell, I want to help, I really do, but I just can't!" he insisted, readjusting his fake plastic nerd glasses.

Adam sighed and leaned close to Brad. "It's a life or death situation." he whispered.

"Who's life?"

"Do you happen to remember Joe Filtar? You liked him, didn't you?"

Brad gave Adam a skeptical look. "Yes… yes, he was a good friend… Look, Mitchell, what do you want me to do? I don't have the clearance for that! I'll get caught! There's hundreds of analysists here, they'll fire me for sure! I mean it when I tell you this: I can't help you!"

Adam arched an eyebrow. "Is Drake still the records keeper?"

"Well, yes, but-…" Brad noticed the look Adam was giving him. "Oh no! No way! Nope, not gonna happen!"

"It's been seven months! You're gonna let Joe die because of a simple break-up?" Adam was starting to get desperate. He needed to figure things out and he couldn't do that without Brad's help. This was his last shot at getting some real information from the records vault.

"You really care about him, don't you?" Adam nodded, eyes wide. Brad sighed. "Let me make a call."

**:::Codex:::**

Tommy readjusted his tacky orange apron, tightening it around his slender waist.

"So… this tape will work better?" The middle aged very confused woman asked for the third time.

_Didn't I just say that? _"Yes ma'am."_ Damn polite policy…_

The overhead intercom beeped before a voice said: "Clean up on isle seven. Isle seven please."

"Excuse me, ma'am." Tommy sauntered to isle seven, mentally groaning when he saw the mess. Blue and purple paints spread in a large puddle across the floor. A man was picking up an empty paint can and looking quite embarrassed.

"Oh my god, I am so sorry!"

"It's fine, sir."

"I'm Sauli." The man said, studying Tommy.

"Joe." Tommy said with mild enthusiasm.

"Joe what?"

"Filtar, but why-?"

"Claudia sent me. She requests your presents." Tommy frowned. Claudia? Wait… what? "Follow me." Tommy stopped thinking and just fell into step behind Sauli, who lead him to a black SUV parked right outside. As they climbed in, Sauli barked more orders. "Turn off your cell phone and give me your walkie talkie." Tommy obeyed, slipping off the work apron as Sauli tossed the walkie talkie out the window.

"What is going on?"

"No questions." Sauli said in an 'end-of-discussion' tone.

**:::Codex:::**

Brad stayed on the phone longer than necessary, and their conversation ended with directions to the vault for me, and a dinner date for Brad, who blushed deeply as he excepted. I followed the simple instructions to the vault and became face to face with Drake. We greeted each other with a tight hug because we hadn't seen each other since Tommy left.

"So this is about Joe, huh?"

"Yup."

"How is he?"

"He's… ok, I guess."

"I'd sure like to see him… hey! Why don't you two go out to dinner with Brad and I? We're getting pizza. How 'bout it?"

"I'll ask Joe, but I'm sure we'll be there."

"Alright. Well, come on in." Drake unlocked the records vault and led me in. "You can't take anything out of here, but feel free to take all the time you need. Do you know what you're looking for?"

—

Tommy entered the large white room and immediately greeted Claudia with a hug. He was shocked when he saw the director, seated at a desk. He was old—like 50—with a bald spot, and gray hair. His eyes were hidden behind thick glasses. Tommy didn't know his name, no one did…

"Joe Filtar?" The director greeted him.

"Yeah?" He mentally scolded himself for being informal, but he was still trying to process why he'd been brought here.

"Do you remember why you resigned?" Tommy nodded. Of course he remembered. Claudia had ordered him to kill Adam, claiming it to be a loyalty test. The only other option was to resign, so he took that window. "Well, that mission has yet to be completed, and it needs to be."

Tommy shrugged. "Why me? You have hundreds of perfectly capable agents right here!"

"Because Mitchell is good. He's really good. And we need someone who's equally as good. Which is where you come in."

"So you want me to complete a mission that I could _never_ do three years ago—which cost me my job, by the way—because you need some one who's 'good'."

"If you complete this mission, you will regain your job, but this time, by my side… as vice director."

Tommy's jaw dropped. Vice director? Now _that's_ a position he wanted… but, could he really _kill Adam to get it? Decisions, decisions…_


End file.
